


101

by notwisely



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Post-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwisely/pseuds/notwisely
Summary: After the dust has cleared, after the comforting weight of that first paycheck has settled in Swiss bank accounts and private trusts scattered across a dozen countries, after everyone has straggled home for the time being, Lou slings her favorite motorcycle jacket over her shoulder, nods at Debbie, and says, "Be seeing you."





	101

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kathryne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/gifts).



After the dust has cleared, after the comforting weight of that first paycheck has settled in Swiss bank accounts and private trusts scattered across a dozen countries, after everyone has straggled home for the time being, Lou slings her favorite motorcycle jacket over her shoulder, nods at Debbie, and says, "Be seeing you."

Debbie loses precious hours from the start—she's leaning back against the granite countertop of Lou's kitchen bar, waiting for their French press to finish brewing when it hits her that, _oh shit_ , that particular tilt to Lou's head, that arch of her eyebrow—she's leaving _now_.

Then it's a mad scramble to get to JFK and she has to pull a Kathryn D Sullivan and a Jersey Iced Tea to land a seat on the next flight out to O'Hare. All told it's thirteen hours before she finally steps onto the muddy red-and-green carpet of the Robert Fields Domestic Airport in Redmond, Oregon. She's out of sorts from the layover, the itchy stewardess uniform, the relentless _smiling_ , and preemptively disgruntled by the prospect of a week without her 118-jet showerhead and twelve hundred thread-count sheets.

Dani's waiting for her half an hour outside the city, perched on the back of her giant Ford F-250 in a green floral-print button-down, her hair tied back with a bandanna. She hops down as Debbie pulls into the dirt driveway and raises an eyebrow at the little gray Honda Civic Debbie had rented on her way out of the airport. "Nice."

Debbie laughs, "Not as nice as what you've got for me, hopefully."

"Nothing but the best for my best customer," Dani grins as she leads the way to the back of the cabin. Debbie has good memories of this place, both as a safehouse and a... weekend getaway, of sorts. She's thinking fondly of the truly phenomenal Merlot they'd brought to share during the last trip, when her eyes catch on what's waiting in the garage and she stops dead in her tracks. Lou likes timeless classics, will pick the vintage hardware every time. This Ferrari Portofino, with its low sleek lines and gleaming cherry red curves, the hood already rolled down—this is all Debbie.

"I owe you one, Garcia," She says half-reverently as she slides into the driver's seat, the rich, buttery leather molding to her back.

"You owe me a couple hundred thousand. Dollars." Dani shoots back.

"It's been taken care of. You know I'm good for it." Debbie doesn't even bother to hide the possessiveness in her grip as she curls her hands around the wheel. She grins as the engine purrs to life underneath her. "You're the best, Dani."

Dani smirks, "I know." She waves as the car peels out of the driveway, accompanied by the blur of stately pine trees on either side and the crisp scent of sagebrush in the air.

*

She can taste the salt in the air well before she hits the Oregon coast. The forest gives way to high, golden hills, trees interspersed with scrubby brush as she pulls onto the 101 winding its way south. The steady, rhythmic crashing of waves accompanies the miles ticking away on her odometer, and Debbie finds her thoughts drifting back to that day by the river.

"Trust me," Debbie had said, outside the bar, "He's not going to send me back. Trust me."

" _I_ trust you," Lou had replied, the words edged. She'd stepped back, gently pushed Debbie's hands off her shoulders, and looked at her for a minute. Then she had shaken her head, laughed—a short, sharp sound no one could mistake for happiness. "By your side every step of the way, huh? Guess I'm still a sucker after all." She turned abruptly and walked back into the bar before Debbie could reply.

Lou would never have left. Lou is necessary—to the con, to– to Debbie, and she knows that. There's no possible version of this where Lou Miller walks out on their team and leaves them scrambling in the eleventh hour.

But it sits there, a tight knot lodged under Debbie's breastbone. _I trust you,_  Lou had said, and unspoken, in the self-deprecating twist of her mouth, _but do you trust me?_

*

She's working on an apology. A gesture. Debbie believes in gestures; _show, don't tell_  is the conman's catchphrase, after all.

Lou wouldn't say no to a new bike, but she also loves her Harley with a single-minded devotion that Debbie is sometimes almost jealous of. She's got the plans to Buckingham Palace, and Lou would absolutely have a field day with that job, but they need to keep a low profile until the Met business blows over. It's the age old question, really: what do you get the girl who has several million dollars in stolen gemstones?

*

Two hours past the California border, she spots the sign and brakes hard, pulling a screeching turn into the mostly-empty parking lot. A glittering blue and green semi-circle of plastic feathers rotates slowly above the words PEACOCK VILLA MOTEL, and even before Debbie sees the familiar motorcycle leaning next to the building she knows that it's the place.

She'd been all of twenty, standing in front of _The Royal Peacock_ swearing up and down that she had an invite to one of the most exclusive parties in New York, and _knowing_ from the bouncer's eyes that he wasn't going to let her in, when Lou—still a stranger, still the most stunning thing Debbie had ever laid eyes on—stepped out from behind him and frowned impatiently.

"What _took_  you so long?" She'd said—peevish, vapid, tipsy, "I wanna go dance!" Debbie had locked eyes with Lou as the bouncer reluctantly stepped aside, and the rush of instant understanding and recognition and amusement had felt like waking up after twenty years of sleepwalking.

Debbie does a quick scan of the motel lobby as she's checking in and sees no sign of Lou. It's been a long, long day—and this time Debbie's not the one with the game plan, doesn't have a map for this, so she heads directly for the room and collapses into bed.

*

When she stumbles down to the tiny breakfast area at 8:30 the next morning, Lou is already sitting at a window table, nursing the dregs of a cup of coffee. She's wearing a black-and-white blazer with the sleeves rolled up and leather leggings that leave nothing to the imagination. She has her reading glasses on, and the morning light catches in her hair. She looks—she always looks good, but Debbie feels a deep rush of fondness cut through the early-morning bleariness as she sinks into the seat across from her.

"Your hair's a disaster." Lou says, folding down the newspaper she's reading.

Debbie's wearing a khaki trenchcoat over yesterday's clothes, and still feels eighty percent asleep. She drops her head into her folded arms. "It's too early to be conscious or presentable. What kind of godforsaken breakfast buffet ends at nine?"

Lou smiles that crooked half-smile that means she's pleased, though Debbie can't imagine what there is to be pleased about in this seedy California motel at this ungodly hour.

"Eat your breakfast. I'll see you at lunch." Lou rolls up the newspaper and nudges a plate across the table, tapping Debbie's head lightly with the paper as she gets up. When Debbie lifts her head she sees that Lou has somehow procured a Belgian waffle for her, complete with fruit, cream, and crushed mint leaves. The woman at the next table over is chewing determinedly at something vaguely bagel-shaped and the breakfast bar is stocked almost exclusively with brightly colored mini cereal boxes. Debbie has no idea how Lou did it, but every bite is delicious.

*

She's back on Route 101 less than an hour later, freshly showered and changed, the roar of the wind slicing away any lingering traces of sleep. The early morning mist is burning off the hills as the sun rises, and as she merges onto Highway 1 the landscape drops away to her right, a vast expanse of ocean stretching away toward the horizon.

Lou is giving her space to think, to figure out her side of this, so that's what Debbie does.

She doesn't think Lou is angry at her. If Lou wanted to hold grudges, she has a veritable buffet of justifiable cause, but, somehow, she doesn't. Debbie isn't happy with the way they left things, though. They'd fought, and then in the rush of planning, of the heist itself, the aftermath, the cleanup and follow-ups and loose ends that needed tying off, they hadn't had a chance to talk again.

It had been simple, almost thoughtless, before. Falling in step with Lou, falling into bed together after jobs, bickering over meals and maps and plans, each movement as natural as drawing breath. But— _there's always an asterisk, with you—_ Lou's voice echoes in her head, _but_ there have to be asterisks, Debbie thinks. She has to consider the angles and make contingencies, backup plans. Poker had been Danny's game—the bluff, the bet, the reveal. Debbie's always been partial to chess.

She hadn't told Lou about Becker, before, for—well, for a variety of reasons. But among them was the same reason she'd kept it from Lou this time around. It was an unnecessary risk. Becker was Debbie's business, her problem. Telling Lou would introduce additional complications, would destroy the fragile partnership they were just rebuilding. She'd thought it through, considered the angles, made contingencies.

Somehow it still feels like the wrong decision.

*

When she glances at her phone at the next rest stop, Lou has texted her an address a little ways off the highway. She drives through sprawling Sonoma vineyards, its rolling hills a patchwork of greens straight out of an eighteenth-century pastoral. The road ends in front of a restaurant with yellow stucco walls, a wooden terraced patio jutting out behind.

Lou is outside, leaning casually against her bike. Debbie's eyes slide up the long line of her legs, the tight leather leggings. Sometime between breakfast and noon, Lou's swapped out her blazer for a blue-and-gold pinstriped vest, over the same cream collared shirt. She nods in greeting as the Ferrari pulls up.

"You showing me a good time?" Debbie asks as she slides out of the car.

"We're in wine country now. There's only good times to be had." Lou shoots back, grinning.

Debbie slides into the practiced cadence of the City of Gold setup as they walk up to the restaurant, and there's nothing that quite compares to that thrill of exhilaration as Lou instantly picks up what she's putting down and runs with it. She listens attentively to the server spiel and wine service while Debbie blatantly scrutinizes the room and the furnishings. Lou asks a series of pointed, thorough questions about how the restaurant sources its ingredients, while Debbie snaps discreet photos of their table, and when their server heads back to the kitchen, Debbie sees her pull the manager aside to mouth the word " _critics_ " his ear.

It's easy—it's always easy with Lou, moving in tandem, their steps and sentences flowing seamlessly into each other.

The food, when it arrives, is exquisite.

"You know, I really was a food critic once," Lou says after the manager has come out to welcome them to the restaurant and comp them the meal. She licks the last of the chocolate mousse off her fork.

"I don't think it counts if you're stealing someone's identity at the time." Debbie says thoughtfully.

"Well, _she_ was a food critic, and I was her–" Lou's just picking up steam when they're interrupted by the rising voice of the man at the next table.

"Hey listen, _moron_ , when I ask for my steak well-done, I want it _well-done_. Repeat after me." He's face is narrow and unpleasant, and he has a painful grip on the shoulder of his server, a gangling college kid who looks like he wants to melt into the ground.

"Well done, yes sir." He mumbles.

"Good. Do you think you can handle walking into the kitchen and repeating those two words, or is that too _challenging_  for you?" The man sneers.

Debbie exchanges a glance with Lou, and they both get up.

"Well we were just in Tahoe last week, it's just lovely this time of year," Debbie says as they walk by his table, turning towards Lou and accidentally jostling the man's chair as she moves past. The glass of Cabernet he's holding tips directly into his lap, a bright red stain spreading over his white suit. She's gasping apologies before the man has even drawn a breath to start yelling, patting ineffectually at his blazer with a napkin. "Oh my god," Debbie says, as he stands, "I'm so sorry, I'm such a klutz, I can't believe myself, listen, I live in the area, I know a great dry cleaner," she babbles.

The man, caught wrong-footed between bafflement and rage, lets himself be herded towards the door as Debbie keeps up a constant stream of chatter. Over her shoulder she sees Lou mouthing an apology to the waiter as she leaves a hefty stack of bills on the table, then they're out the door. "Just call this number, I'll pay for all of it, of course, or if a replacement is necessary—I'm so,  _so_ , sorry," she opens his car door for him and he slides in, still shell-shocked. Debbie waggles her fingers in a little wave as he pulls away from the restaurant, and feels rather than sees Lou walking up. 

"Nice work." Lou says, grinning as she slides on her helmet, "I'll see you at the hotel." She swings a leg over the motorcycle, and roars out of the parking lot.

*

The hotel, it turns out, is more of a villa, with beautiful arched entrances and stately palm trees lining the neatly-groomed paths. When Debbie walks up to the front desk, the girl glances briefly at her license and smilingly hands her a key, explaining that she's all checked in already and can head straight to the suite.

Lou's already inside, perched on the king bed and filling out today's crossword. Debbie turns in a slow circle, taking in the kitchen, the sitting area, the French doors opening to their own private balcony.

"You pay for this room?" She asks, curious.

" _Someone_ paid," Lou flicks something at Debbie, and she catches the leather wallet on reflex. When she flips it open, she sees a washed-out photo of the gentleman from lunch grimacing back at her.

Debbie sinks onto the bed laughing, and Lou grins down at the paper in her hands. They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Debbie slides over so that they're sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Lou looks over, raising an eyebrow, but Debbie shakes her head. She doesn't want to talk just yet. She turns instead, leaning over to cup the nape of Lou's neck and pull her in for a kiss. Lou opens up easily, her whole body relaxing into Debbie as she slides her hand to the small of Debbie's back, holding her in place. Each breath is lazy, undemanding, luxurious in a way they've never had time for before. Debbie moves to straddle Lou, kneeling so that Lou is bracketed between her knees, back against the headboard, and Lou's answering smile is too brilliant to look at for long so Debbie dives back in for another kiss.

*

Debbie wakes up the next morning as Lou is trying to extract herself from the tangle of sheets and limbs. "Shh, go back to sleep," Lou says, half-laughing, but Debbie feels wide-awake and exhilarated by it. Lou is standing by the bed, watching her with something soft and open on her face, so Debbie stretches and smirks and tilts her head back for a kiss.

They head out together, Debbie in the car, Lou on the bike, sometimes swinging up ahead or falling behind, orbiting the steady path of the Ferrari.

A few hours in, Lou gestures towards an exit and yells something, the words swept away by the wind. Debbie follows as she pulls off the highway, down a smaller street, and finally off onto the shoulder of the road. Lou pulls her helmet off and drops it carelessly onto the ground before sprawling down next to it, getting bits of grass on the dark navy of her jacket as she pushes her sunglasses up. They're on a small outcropping overlooking the water, a sheer rock face directly below them. The ocean is impossibly, breathtakingly blue, foaming white where the water crashes against the cliffs below. The stubbly California grass prickles against her skin as she sinks down next to Lou.

It's effortless to be here, a clean, uncomplicated thing, and Debbie thinks that maybe that's the trick. No asterisks. Lou has always had her back, and maybe Debbie can let it happen, without the caveats and precautions and convolutions. She thinks  _Lou knows me,_  and turns it over in her head, looking at the shape of it, the promise of understanding and acceptance so strong it seems laughable that Claude Becker could put even a scratch on its surface. It's too good to believe, almost, but sitting here in the sun-drenched hills, looking at Lou looking out at the ocean, Debbie feels the absolute truth of it deep in her chest.

"I was thinking of hiring a skywriter. Or maybe a flash mob." She says, squinting at the light glinting off the waves. "That's how apologies are traditionally done, I've heard."

Lou hums thoughtfully, "And?"

"And." Debbie pauses, tilts her head back to look at the sky, "I had to do it—it was my shit to deal with, and I _had_  to deal with him, but I should have told you."

"And?" Lou's smiling now.

"And I'm sorry."  

"All right." Lou nudges her shoulder and Debbie leans into her, relishing the contact.

"Hey," Lou says, after a while, "I'm a sure thing. When it comes to this. To you. You know?"

"I know," says Debbie, "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> just for flavor, this is what lou is wearing on [day one](https://www.instagram.com/p/Boe3eRchnAP/?taken-by=notjessfashion), and this is [day two](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhHRjOMAcZV/?taken-by=babiolesdezoe).


End file.
